


Take This Waltz

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Could be John is really dead, Could be an astral projection, Dancing, Drug Use, First Kisses, First Time, M/M, More angst, Warm bed, after s4, even more angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 11:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13739520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: Sherlock struggles to find his way after John’s death. So much so that Sherlock believes he's never left, and he begins to see his blogger, haunting him in the streets of London and in 221b. Everyone wonders about Sherlock’s sanity, including himself. But Sherlock is convinced: John is out there and needs him. Will Sherlock be able to find his John Watson? Set after S4.Written as belated Christmas present for the best beta ever, MrBotanyb, who likes sentimental songs and suggested this title. The lyrics are used throughout. Also forSherlock Challenge’sFebruary prompt “Midnight.”





	Take This Waltz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrBotanyB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrBotanyB/gifts).



His dreamless nights happen as he walks down a London street or sits with Rosie on his lap next to Mrs. Hudson’s fireplace. Memories of John are all the dreams he has left.

When sleep does come, it’s nightmares. He relives those last moments with John in his arms, those last breaths. _He’s gone, he’s gone, John is dead_ , the world is dead, the room becomes dark. All the rooms in the Mind Palace bare and the lights go out. Only blood and tears remain. He was alone before, and he coped, but that was before John Watson made him care, before John Watson made him love. He forces himself to cope. He must cope! He has John Watson’s daughter to raise, to love. Instead and also. John knew— he must have known— Rosie would save him. If not for Rosie, he would have followed John into the dark. She saves him now just as John Watson saved him before.

He isn’t perfect. There are days he fails miserably as a parent and as a person. He reaches for that crutch. He knows he shouldn’t, but when Harry or Molly have Rosie, he finds he cannot stop. The itch gets stronger each day.

She is what makes him take cases again. She says, “Papa” and kisses him on the cheek. She makes him want to breathe. He wishes she could make her father come back to life the way she made him come back to life. At times, he thinks this is John’s revenge for Sherlock jumping off the roof at Barts. One big “fuck you” to Sherlock. He thinks John will waltz in with some bad accent and pencil mustache in some corner cafe, posing as a waiter. He wishes this for so hard and for so long, he believes it might come true. He wouldn’t even headbutt John. He looks for John behind trees in the cemetery and curses himself for never telling John his heart’s truth. As he sets down a single red rose next to John Watson’s headstone, he hopes and prays John knew what he meant to say on the Tarmac.

He spends hours, days, months thinking about what could have been. He spends days, months, years looking over his shoulder, waiting for what will never happen. He watches Rosie sit on Santa’s lap, go off to school, blow out five candles on her cake.

Where is his conductor of light?

But there is no light. His doctor will never return— or that’s what Mycroft tells him. And Lestrade. And Molly. He knows, but he still hopes. He even goes so far as to demand they exhume John’s body. Mrs. Hudson draws the line there.

He asks all of them as they stand in the livingroom of 221B, what if John faked his death to kill Sherlock’s demons? They shake their heads.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Rosie sees him first, “The man who looks like Daddy,” and Papa asks where. They are at Regent’s Park. “Over there,” she points, “behind that tree.”

It should have been that easy. But it wasn’t. No one was there.

The second time Sherlock sees him. Not in a cafe or at the cemetery or at a crime scene. At 221B standing in the doorway.

“I knew you weren’t dead,” Sherlock says, looking up from his test tubes.

“And I thought you were dead for two years, but you weren’t. Is this a new experiment? What are you doing?”

“Waiting for you.”

Then he disappeared. There were no footsteps down the stairs.

Sherlock decides he has lost his mind. Then Rosie asks him, “What did Daddy want?”

The next time it’s just after midnight as Sherlock walks back to Baker Street from a two day case, a case where once upon a time with John Watson would have kept them up all night from the mutual glow of a satisfactory solution. But only one pair of hollow footfalls echo down the lonely London street. As always, he misses John by his side, illuminating his way with his smile and words of “amazing” and “brilliant” between calling him a “git” and an “arsehole.” He misses spinning about, coat billowing, arms flailing as John smiles with hands on the hips in amusement. He is startled from his pining as he looks up: John stands before him, shimmering in the fog. Sherlock stops, heart pounding.

He is afraid to ask, but he must know. “Are you alive?”

“Yes,” John says, and bites his lip.

“Don’t leave again!”

“I can’t stay. I need to get back.” There is distress written in John’s face. He takes a step toward Sherlock.

Sherlock steps forward into the fog to meet him, but John is gone. He inspects the area. Looks for clues. John needs to get back? To where? There must be clues! He sees wet footprints left on the pavement, but they evaporate before his eyes.

It was John! He knows it was John. This is no Baskerville hound, no drug-induced hallucination.

He is frantic. At home, Sherlock scours the internet, everything he can find on astral projection, spirits, and the paranormal. He goes into his Mind Palace. His deductions go against all he has ever believed.

He shouts at the skull, at the walls: “Where are you?! John!”

Mrs. Hudson is not amused. “Don’t you understand what your obsession is doing to Rosie? She told me today that her Daddy is a ghost who comes to visit!”

“She may be correct.”

“Sherlock! You must stop this!”

There! He’s voiced it aloud! For once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth

Three days later, Sherlock wakes with the bed warm next to him and scent of John’s soap on the pillow.

“We never shared a bed,” Sherlock says aloud with regret. It would have been nice if they had, he thinks.

Rosie and the aroma of eggs, bacon, and toast welcome him. “Get up!” she commands. “Daddy made us breakfast!”

Sherlock leaps out of bed and races to the kitchen, Rosie behind. Breakfast is served: neatly plated on the table with black coffee and two sugars.

“See!” Rosie says. “I told you.”

Sherlock sits and decides he’d better eat. Rosie certainly does. He nibbles on toast with just the right amount of butter slathered on it, closes his eyes and hopes John will appear when he opens them.

No John appears. But later he finds one of John’s sweaters on the floor in the bedroom. It smells of John Watson, all cheap aftershave, tea and oil of from his well-cared for service revolver. Sherlock puts it under his pillow.

After Mrs. Hudson assures him for the third time that she did not make breakfast and that she is not the housekeeper nor the cook, Sherlock heads to his Mind Palace.

Molly visits Baker Street later that day. She did not make breakfast either. Sherlock doesn’t have to be a genius to see people are wondering about his sanity other than himself.

The next morning his bed isn’t warm next to him, and the aroma of bacon, eggs and toast doesn’t greet him. Rosie does, however, appear at this door with an unwanted guest.

“Company!” she declares.

“Hello, brother mine.”

“Go away.” Sherlock pulls the sheet over his head, and Rosie pulls it down.

“No, Uncle Mycroft needs to stay!”

“Not today,” Sherlock says. Rosie understands that her Papa really does love his brother. He’s told her so many times. She loves her uncle and respects him, so she strips the sheet off the bed and makes Papa face his brother.

“You know I’m too old for peek a boo, Papa! Get up!” The playful expression on her face reminds him so much of John’s it hurts.

Sherlock groans and rolls over, then kisses Rosie’s forehead.

“Do you always sleep in like this, leaving Rosie to her own devices?”

“Of course not!” Sherlock feels a bit ashamed despite himself.

“I am here to discuss a sensitive matter with you. I believe we should ask Mrs. Hudson to watch over Rosamund for a bit. Would you like to stay with Mrs. Hudson, young lady?”

“You know, I’m not a baby. Please don’t treat me like one,” she says, then Rosie frowns. Sherlock recalls being dismissed from his big brother and parents’ discussions when he was her age. Sherlock knows she hates it as much as he did when adults excluded her, and that is why Sherlock always respects her intellect. Although she loves Mrs. Hudson and she would rather stay with them, she does as her Uncle Mycroft wishes and takes his hand, just as young Sherlock did once upon a time.

Before she leaves with Mycroft she turns and asks her uncle, “Why can’t you just believe Daddy’s here?”

Sherlock wants to believe. He does. But not his brother. He never believed in pirates either. He doesn’t tell Mycroft he’s been out of sorts because he believes John is with him. He doesn’t tell him because Mycroft already knows.

Sherlock grudgingly gets up, slips on his dressing gown and thrusts his hands deep in its pockets. Sherlock begins to panic. What if Mycroft means to take Rosie?! Mycroft wouldn’t dare, _would he_? Rosie belongs here! It was her father’s home and has become Rosie’s— and it’s certainly more than any home they had with Mary! Sherlock’s mind races. He’d been too preoccupied with John. He misses him more than life, but to have Rosie torn from him! He was not only letting Rosie down, but letting John down as well. He will not allow this to happen.

Waiting for Mycroft to return, he paces the room, then throws himself down into John’s old flowered chair, pressing his knees tight to his chest and pulling John’s plaid quilt around him. He knows he’s hyperventilating, and he mustn’t do that because he needs a plan, a way to prove to Mycroft that Rosie must stay at 221B.

When Mycroft steps back into the room, he raises his eyebrows as he sits down on the couch and spins Sherlock’s laptop around on the coffee table so that they both can view the screen. Sherlock feels anxious. What evidence of his bad parenting skills does Mycroft possess? Cameras in his apartment of him feeding her crisps for dinner? CCTV evidence of him pushing her too high on a swing? Mycroft pulls a DVD from his vest pocket and shows it to Sherlock. Written in John’s neat hand are the words “Miss Me?”

“Is this some sort of bad joke?” Sherlock asks. He thinks he might actually black out.

“John’s sense of humor was always rather morbid,” Mycroft says.

“You’ve watched it.” Sherlock is almost relieved. Almost. This is not about Rosie, but what this DVD contains devastates him. The idea of hearing the last words from John fills Sherlock with both promise and dread.

“Shall we?” Mycroft asks as he slips it from the sleeve and opens the drive.

Sherlock can’t breathe. He can’t speak. The screen comes to life and his eyes are transfixed on  John’s image. He’s dressed in an inconspicuous grey twill sweater that makes his eyes sparkle— deep blue and winsome. He’s almost in the room with them. Almost.

“Let me know when you are ready,” Mycroft says.

The world closes in so tight it seems to Sherlock he’s crushed in a box. He can’t stop his eyes from burning and a thick lump from forming in his throat. He wants to watch, but he’s afraid and trapped. He wants John to be alive! He wants John to be alive so much he would sell his soul if he thought he had one.

He nods and Mycroft pushes play. His John comes to life. The irony of John’s first words make Sherlock ache.

“If you’re watching this I’m either dead, or you think I’m dead. Either way, I have something to get off my chest. I want you to make me another promise. One you need to keep. I know your last one didn’t work out so well for us, and I blame myself for part of that. Well most. It was a promise I never should have let you make. It took too long for me to realize why I blamed you. I knew you loved me, and I knew you wanted me. I just never admitted it to myself. I knew it when I asked you to be my best man. I knew it and let you help plan my wedding. I knew it, any I let you make that bloody promise at my wedding anyway. I convinced myself that you broke your promise because you selfishly wanted me to yourself— that it was the only way you would ever have me. I told myself I hated you for Mary’s death. I blamed you. I know it’s not true. It took a lot of hours of self-reflection to see that it was myself I hated. I almost cheated on her because I hated myself. I hurt Mary’s memory, I hurt myself, but I hurt you most of all. When I think of what I did to you, Sherlock, it was unforgivable. Yet you forgave me. You always forgive. I didn’t deserve it, but you deserved more. So please forgive me. Forgive me this. Forgive me for leaving you again. I’m sorry that I left you alone. So the promise I want you to make is that you’ll go on. Wake up. Live. Love Rosie. Swear to it. Take care of her. I’m sorry I never told you how I felt, but know I…” Sherlock watches as John hesitates, “...love you. I’ve always loved you. I always will.”

Sherlock sobs. He can’t stop himself. Mycroft pretends his brother isn’t crying. Sherlock blinks back blinding tears as he listens to John’s last words.

“Promise to take care of yourself. Mary made you promise to save me. I want you to promise to save yourself.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Sherlock remembers what happened just days before “the accident.” He’d been using but had managed to keep it from John. The concoction was his own, but despite how much he’d tried to hide it, he’d been unable to control his mouth when high.

“You can’t admit it! You never should have married her! You always loved me, but John Watson is a coward. Why is it, in all other things, you are the bravest man alive, but when it comes to admitting you care for me, you can’t admit you might love a man? Am I so repulsive? Do you think being with me is that revolting?!”

The shock on John’s face is like a slap to his own. It sobers him. John mouth quivers. He turns, leaves.

The next day John comes to face Sherlock only to find Sherlock strung out on the couch. Sherlock watches John check his pulse, then drop his limp arm. “You promised me you wouldn’t,” John says. “I didn’t swear,” Sherlock says back. “You were right. I was a coward. But you’re one too,” John says before he walks out the door.

Despite it all, John goes out on “one last case” with him. Why he left the welfare of his daughter in Sherlock’s hands, he didn’t know until now. John did it to save him.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

After that, it’s always at midnight when John appears at his bedside. “You git! You don’t always need to question what you don’t understand,” John says.

“What don’t I understand?”

“That I am here. I am alive!”

As Sherlock gets out of bed, John disappears.

“Come back,” Sherlock whispers or maybe it’s John who whispers it.

That evening as Sherlock reads Winnie the Pooh to Rosie, he hears the kettle boil and tea cups rattle. After he tucks her in, he goes into the livingroom. His tea rests on the coffee table. Sherlock picks it up and sits down. He takes the DVD out of the sleeve and watches it again. He replays the end where John hesitates, and whispers back, “I love you too. I always have.”

He wakes, groggy and has difficulty opening his eyes. His back aches. He fell asleep on the couch. Again. He must have left the video on. He hears John’s voice. It’s like an echo.

But this isn’t a voice from a dream. It’s the same words, “Wake up. Come back.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

One, two, three, One, two, three, One, two, three. Sherlock teaches the man he should have married the waltz in his Mind Palace when Mycroft interrupts. This annoys Sherlock because it’s one of his fondest memories, and he’s at the part where John says, “I am rubbish at dancing,” and Sherlock replies, “No, you aren’t; you just need the right partner.” Sherlock replays this lesson daily. He’s kept it safe in a special room and treasures this memory that gave him permission to touch John, to press him close, to smell his hair. The lyrics of[ the waltz ](https://www.google.com/search?q=Take+this+waltz+words&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&client=firefox-b-1) that they dance to connect directly to Sherlock and John Watson’s past: windows and violins and pools and shoulders and Death. Each day he experiences with John all the bittersweet lyrics of the song: to “dance in Vienna,” to “bury his soul in a scrapbook,” and to “place the dew of his mouth on John’s thighs.” Too bad Mycroft rudely interrupts.

Mycroft shakes him. He is frantic, and Mycroft is never frantic. But what he says makes Sherlock frantic as well: It’s John. He is alive! They have found him! Or more precisely, John found them. He was being held captive, but he escaped. Mycroft arranged for John to get care at a private hospital. Sherlock doesn’t remember getting in Mycroft’s black sedan or much at all of what Mycroft tells him. It’s like Sherlock is in a tunnel and it’s dark. Garbled words about drugs and unknown substances and no list.

When they reach their destination, Sherlock races to John’s room. His legs lead him there. For some reason, he’s not surprised why he knows exactly where John is— he’s still in that dark tunnel. But John is his other half, his moral compass, the best part of him. He’s calling to him.

It shines before him, and it’s bright and blinding. His conductor of light.

“ _Sherlock_.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

John reads it in the paper as he’s coming home from a late night at Barts. He stops at Tesco on the way home. The screaming Franklin Gothic font with Sherlock’s photo plastered underneath. No one called him. Not Mycroft, not Lestrade. _Sherlock Holmes Found Dead. Again._ He opens his phone. For obituary and more, click here. He does.

An overdose.

Years. How many? Four years since Mary died. Although John didn’t like counting. Over a year since John last saw him. Sherlock Holmes. Best man, best friend, godfather. Drug addict. He’d supported him. He’d threatened him. He’d found help for him. Nothing he did or said mattered, and John couldn’t stand to watch anymore. Sherlock told _him_ off. Told him the truth: He loved Sherlock and refused to say it. The next day, he’d walked into 221b see Sherlock strung out after shoving a needle in his arm. He’d shut the door and walked down the stairs. He was still raw over it all.

Time. He always thought he’d have more time. He should have known he wouldn’t. He never should have walked out on him.

Sherlock had called him sentimental more than once. A romantic. He disagreed with him at times, at others he acknowledged Sherlock was correct. He wanted a happy ever after. He thought that someday he and Sherlock would find a way.

The last time he saw his friend it was on a case. He never wrote it in his blog, but he thought he might one day. But John couldn’t watch the great man destroy himself. He didn’t answer texts or calls. Then Sherlock simply stopped.

The tears come so easy and fast he doesn’t realize he’s crying until he’s standing in front of his house with the key in his hand.

He wipes them away before he steps in the door, but Rosie still notices his red rimmed eyes, and so does the nanny. He gives neither of them an explanation. He doesn’t have to do it. He hears it on the telly.

Ellen the nanny tucks Rosie to bed for him and excuses herself quietly. He turn off the telly and sits down when the doorbell rings.

Mycroft. His black sedan in silhouette behind him, he looks like death come to call. In a way he is.

“It’s true then,” John says, but doesn’t let him in just yet. One doesn’t simply let death inside.

“He’s not dead,” Mycroft sighs. “He is in a coma with little brain activity.”

John nods and Mycroft sniffs. He doesn’t need to call Ellen back. Mycroft has Molly in the sedan.

“We’ve discussed taking him him off the respirators to see what will happen. It might force him out of the vegetative state. He might die. I’m here not only to tell you this. Years ago, Sherlock appointed you to make such a decision if this should ever happen.”

“Of course he did, the wanker.” John sucks what little air is there. “Exactly how much is ‘little’ brain activity.”

“Unusual areas are active. We do have some hope.”

“Of course it’s unusual. It’s Sherlock.”

“Mummy believes that if he will wake for anyone, it would be for you.”

“That’s it. Lay on the pressure.” John looks into Mycroft’s face and is instantly sorry for his words. He notices Mycroft’s red-rimmed eyes, his trembling chin. “I’ll do what I can.”

In a snap, Mycroft whisked him there: in some private hospital, walking through a dark tunnel and into the light and staring down at the ghost of Sherlock Holmes on a bed inside a private room of with the family huddled outside expecting some miracle. Like John could wave a hand and recite: “Come back. Come back from wherever you are,” and Sherlock would return whole.

The doctors and nurses buzz around the room like the bees Sherlock loves. They check his vitals. John takes Sherlock’s hand.

“What have you done?” John says. “Lost your way? I’m here. It’s John. Come back.” But there’s no change. He’s paler than he’s ever seen him. Thinner.

“Damn it, Sherlock! This isn’t the way it’s supposed to end! You can’t leave me alone again, you bloody idiot. Please, Sherlock. Please.”

No change.

He meets with Mycroft and Mummy and Dad. The next day they decide together to take him off the respirator.

He breathes on his own.

John talks to him. Tells him he misses him. Pours his heart out to him. Tells him of missed opportunities and unrequited love. Tells him Sherlock is the best man he’s ever know. That he is his best man, his only man. All the hidden feelings and empty spaces open wide, and he pours out his soul to the man on bed. But nothing changes.

He brings in Rosie.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Sherlock walks into John’s hospital room and sits next to his bed, but his conductor of light doesn’t recognize him. His eyes are open, but he doesn’t see. He looks the same: gold and silver strands of hair, blue eyes, smile lines, and button nose. He shakes John and says, “I’m here! John, there’s something I must tell you, something I never said,” but John doesn’t blink.

Mycroft and Mummy and Dad are out it the hall with Molly. They send in Rosie.

She comes in the room and takes John’s little finger in hers and squeezes. Sherlock takes John’s hand and clutches it tight.

“Wake up. Rosie’s here,” Sherlock begs him. “We’re all here. Everyone who loves you. I always meant to tell you, but never did. I love you. Please come back to us, John. Come back to me, please.”

He looks in John’s eyes, and John is crying along with him.

“I told you Papa! I told you that you would wake Daddy up!”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Rosie takes Sherlock’s little finger in her hand and kisses it. “Wake up, Papa.”

“Rosie’s here. We’re all here. Everyone who loves you. Come back to us Sherlock, please. I’m sorry I wasn’t brave enough to tell you. I sorry I never told you. I love you. Wake up.”

John wipes his eyes as Sherlock opens his. John never saw such a beautiful sight in his life as Sherlock’s lashes fluttering and recognition alighting inside those green-blue depths.

“John?” His voice croaks from disuse and his brows furrow in confusion as he slowly observes his arms, the bed, the room, Rosie gripping his finger and then John smiling like a loon. “You’re alive!” Sherlock gasps.

“Of course I’m alive, you arse. Welcome back.” John sobs with joy.

“What am I doing in this bed?” Sherlock asks, voice broken. “And why aren’t you in one?”

Sherlock’s mummy and dad sigh as Mycroft speaks. “You overdosed, dear brother. You’ve been in this state for over a week.”

“It was John who died! He was a ghost. Not me. You didn’t believe me,” Sherlock tells Mycroft, then his head turns slowly to Rosie. “But you did.”

Over the next days, Sherlock realizes two truths: John is alive, and he almost wasn’t. John listens as Sherlock tells him a tale of a world where John is dead and where Sherlock believes he isn’t. John tells Sherlock a tale of a man who thought he had a world of time and then found out, he didn’t.

A week later, Sherlock is home at 221b and John is visiting with Rosie. In the end, it’s Rosie who brings them together. She wants Sherlock to play his violin. Sherlock begins. Of course he plays, “[ Take This Waltz ](https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/leonardcohen/takethiswaltz.html)” and sings to John as Rosie dances about the room. It’s difficult to do, play and sing. He’s not perfect, but the way John’s eyes sparkle as he sings to John as he sits in his chair with eyes filled with affection, it doesn’t matter. As he sings the last line: “Oh my love, Oh my love. Take this waltz, take this waltz. It's yours now...” Sherlock finds he can’t finish. Rosie stops dancing mid twirl, and John sits forward in his chair.

“What’s wrong?” John asks.

“The last words of the lyrics. I don’t want for this waltz ‘ _to be all there is._ ’ I want more, John. I want you back. You and Rosie. This last week I woke up every morning to realize that this is real, that you’re alive, but what does it matter if you’re not here with me? I want us to be a family. I swore when I thought you were dead that I would tell you my heart if I ever got the chance.” He sets his violin down carefully next to his chair, stand and holds his breath. “I love you, John Watson.” He raises his eyes, waiting for John to answer him as he kneels down in front of John’s chair. Hope washes over him as John’s blue eyes cloud, and he smiles softly.

“Before I answer,” John says, composing himself, “I need one thing from you. You must swear to me you’ll hold your life as important, as worthy. You must swear this. For Rosie, for me and most of all, for yourself. I don’t want some bloody list. Swear you’ll never take coke or morphine or what ever concoction you make ever again. Swear that you’ll never try to toss your life away again. Swear it.”

“John, I swear.” He grasps John’s hand in his. He wants to make John swear he’ll never leave him. He recalls those days in and out of his Mind Palace. Looking in his eyes, Sherlock realizes John never left him.

“Good” is all John says, smiling as he watches Rosie dance around the room to imaginary music.

“Shall we join her on the floor?” Sherlock says, holding out his hand.

“Certainly.”

Sherlock loves the feel of John pressed against him as he slides his arm around Sherlock’s waist. He loves the feel of the calluses on John’s hand as they’re clasped tightly together. Although he knows he’s better at it than John, he doesn’t mind when John leads him in circles around the room. And he doesn’t mind when as John shyly presses his lips to his. And he certainly doesn’t mind when John kisses him again, mouth open and sighing. It’s so much better than anything he ever imagined in his Mind Palace.

That night when John takes him to bed, John leads. Sherlock holds nothing inside. He moans and yells and comes and thanks the powers that John is with him. When he wakes the next day, he smiles down at his doctor asleep on the pillow beside him. He blinks to be certain. Slowly he opens his eyes, then touches John’s brow. This is no dream or apparition. It’s John. Next to him. Alive.

**Author's Note:**

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